


Spinners of Stories

by Paceus



Category: Princess Tutu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-13
Updated: 2008-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paceus/pseuds/Paceus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autor doesn't want to let go of his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spinners of Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kate Nepveu and meganbmoore for beta reading!
> 
> Written for Teresita

 

 

One day when Autor is composing, he suddenly remembers going through every bookshop and antique store in Kinkan Town, looking for clues and information about Drosselmeyer. He plays a string of notes here, another there, and they remind him of the frantic search, how he was driven to find out more, sensing something right out of his reach and wanting to know what it was. He adds another piece of melody. It resembles a famous composition, but it will evolve. He thinks about the musty smell at the used bookstore, the gloomy back of a place where the owner said that the time-worn chair had once belonged to Drosselmeyer. The notes get heavier and darker, then lighter and quicker.

The images are flooding Autor's mind now: questioning the old man at the bookshop for hours, reading old books at the school library carefully for any references to Drosselmeyer. He even drew a family tree for Drosselmeyer's descendants. His fingers are shaking, but the sound of the piano is sure and determined. He remembers sitting in the library at night, finishing a yellowed, preaching history book about Drosselmeyer and those who stop the stories from becoming reality. He remembers seeing Drosselmeyer for what he really was, even though the book accused him of being the most horrible, twisted, power-hungering old man, and feeling the suspicion that they might live in a story for the first time, though a very faint one, a ghost of an idea.

Autor stops playing, and the silence rings in his ears. He looks at his hands, feeling for a moment as if they're not his own. He lifts his fingers in order to play something familiar and soothing, but instead reaches for his papers to jot down the melodies that he has just discovered.

*

"I've just returned from my first tour," Autor tells Fakir. They are sitting in the kitchen of Fakir's little house, and Fakir looks suitably impressed by Autor's travels. As much as Fakir ever looks impressed by anything.

"Remember when we didn't even think of going outside the gates? There's a whole world out there." Autor sips his tea and tries not to look too smug. It isn't as if he's _seen_ the whole world yet. He's just had a good start.

"And now anyone can go out there," Fakir says. He's almost smiling. Autor scowls.

"Yes, and it's all because of you," he says. Fakir cocks an eyebrow at him, and Autor continues, "What are you doing with your writing these days, anyway? Couldn't you write yourself a better house than this?"

They look around. The kitchen is small and bare. If Autor had Fakir's powers, _he_ would live in a castle. He'd never even see the kitchens.

"This is good enough for me," Fakir says. Autor refrains from shaking his head in exasperation.

"Well, if you think so," he says, and changes the subject. "Did you hear that I'm going on another tour in a couple of days? I'll be playing for many important people."

*

After seeing Fakir, Autor starts thinking about Drosselmeyer again. He thinks about Fakir in his little hut at the edge of Kinkan town, and he thinks about Drosselmeyer, writing and gaining fame and glory. When Autor was doing his research he could almost feel what it had been like for Drosselmeyer during those days before they killed him. He wielded his quill and the world changed around him. Everything bent to his will. Kings were standing in line behind his door, wanting to see him, bowing down in front of him. Autor didn't find much about what else Drosselmeyer did besides sit at his home and write the famous stories, but he was sure Drosselmeyer had travelled and met royalty and aristocrats, dined in great halls of resplendent palaces, and slept in high rooms furnished with rich silks.

Autor sits down in front of his piano and plays faulty melodies that he will develop into majestic themes with breathtaking cadences, and sound so full and grand that it will take the listener to the biggest and most beautiful halls imaginable. He sees the marble and the statues and the art work in his mind's eye as he's playing. He can see everything as clearly as if he'd witnessed it with his own eyes - but he hasn't. He's played for people outside Kinkan town but in small theatres and city halls. He's met mayors but not kings. He's been served adequate meals by cheerful townswomen who've called him "boy."

Suddenly he realizes that he's slamming down his hands. He stops and takes a deep breath. If he can write music so beautiful and powerful that everyone will want to hear it, he'll see the great dining halls of kings soon enough.

*

The next time Autor visits Fakir, he's been gone for weeks, travelling and playing for people in distant towns. Fakir is still living in his little house by the lake and once again serves him tea in the kitchen. Autor tries to think of what to say.

"I see you've made yourself at home here," he comments at last, looking at the curtains and a little rug at the fireplace and bits and pieces of furniture. "It looks cozy," he says. It almost feels like admitting something, but of course he's merely judging the accommodation and giving his opinion. Fakir gives him a look.

"Well," Autor says after a moment of silence, "would you like to hear any news from elsewhere? You do know I was just travelling. I played in six towns, in fact."

"No," Fakir says, "but thank you." It's Autor's turn to give Fakir a look. He's strangely quiet.

"Is something the matter?" Autor demands. "If there is, say so. I can help you."

Obviously Fakir's lifestyle isn't doing him any favors. For all Autor knows, he may have been cooped up in the house the entire time Autor was away. Despite the attempts to decorate, Autor can see that the warning signs are there. The lonely house - there's a bowl of bird seed in front of one of the windows - and there's a duck standing outside, as there's bound to be when he lives so close to the lake. Anyone would go crazy living alone here with only _water fowl_ for company.

"Nothing," Fakir says, which is clearly a lie.

"How's your writing?" Autor asks, unnecessarily, because of course it's the writing that's bothering Fakir. There's a chair on the dock that can be seen through the window, and Autor points to it. "Is that where you sit and try to write? If you're having any problems, I can help you."

"I don't need help," Fakir says shortly.

"My expertise is beyond anything anyone else has," Autor says.

"Believe me, I _know_ ," Fakir says, almost without moving his lips as if he's gritting his teeth. 

"But do you understand it?" Autor realizes, all of a sudden, that he can't let it go. He's not sure Fakir sees his own ignorance. Sure, Fakir has learnt a lot, but Autor still remembers finding out again and again that Fakir had no idea of all those things that were going on in his life, in his blood, and that he simply didn't _understand_ stories. "You do know that I've done extensive research on this. I'm better equipped to deal with this thing than anyone, including you."

"You-!"

They exchange a few more words, which result in Autor standing outside the door, dusting his jacket. Apparently Fakir still has a quick temper. Autor straightens his back. At least Fakir now seems more energetic than when Autor arrived. He looks around him one last time in disdain and leaves. The duck quacks at him all the way until he's out of earshot.

*

One day when Autor is playing quietly after a concert, thinking in notes, further away from home than he's ever been, he thinks back to the day when he thought he was in love with Rue. He'd always viewed her as a supercilious, talented girl who was quite alone. She was admired and envied by the girls in the ballet school, not only because she was so good, but also because Mytho was her boyfriend. Then one day he asked if he could help her, and she looked him in the eyes, and suddenly Autor thought she was the most wonderful person he knew. The most wonderful person he could ever imagine knowing.

Autor plays a few notes, softly and tenderly. She had been so beautiful and graceful that his heart had ached, and so mysterious and dangerous that he'd wanted to save her, to do anything for her. She had been so enticing that she became the focus of his whole life. Autor wants to express that in his music but he can't; all he can do is try to express his own feelings.

He hadn't really been in love with her. It was the story, changing people's lives, making them feel things, enchanting them. Yet, he can still remember what it felt like to love Rue. It was make-believe but it had felt real - another indication of how strong the person spinning the story had been. Once Autor thought he could have the same ability, that he could create something out of thin air that would move people, towns, entire kingdoms. He had wanted to command monsters and heroes, peasants and princesses. He had wanted to learn what the oak tree had to say to him, and all he got were faint whispers.

*

The next time Autor visits Fakir, it's been months since he was last there, and Duck opens the door. Autor is surprised: he hasn't seen her in ages.

He starts to ask after Fakir when she squeals, "Autor! How nice to see you! Come in!" Her limbs are thin and clumsy and her long braid as red as ever.

"Uh, yes," he says as he comes in, "it's nice to see you too. It's been a long time."

Fakir sits at the kitchen table with a large book. When Autor comes in he looks up and shuts the book. Autor greets him. It's annoyingly difficult to suppress his curiosity.

"So, what have you been doing?" Autor asks Duck dutifully. "Since the story ended... you're not Princess Tutu anymore, are you?"

Duck smiles. "No, I'm just plain old Duck now."

"And are you dwelling in Kinkan Town?"

"I've been here all this time!" she says. Autor thinks he's been as polite as he has to be and looks for a place to sit.

"Oh, that's right!" Duck says. "Please, sit! It'll be fun to hear about your life now!"

Her enthusiasm is getting on his nerves already. Fakir seems unperturbed. They sit down around the table and Fakir puts a kettle on. Duck seems very interested in Autor's tours, but he feels strangely reluctant to talk about them.

"Have you been travelling for long?" she asks.

"Somewhat. A few weeks at a time."

"Fakir told me you've been performing in many towns!"

"About a dozen, yes."

"Have you seen amazing things?"

"Not really."

Duck is quiet for a while. Then she asks, "Have you seen Mytho and Rue?"

Rue's name makes Autor's heart jump. He clears his throat, then shakes his head.

"Oh." Duck looks momentarily disheartened. That's right, she had fallen for Mytho just like so many other girls in Kinkan Academy. Autor decides to be merciful and change the subject.

"It may interest you that I've been performing a composition of my own - a fast paced little song called 'Clues.' People have liked it."

"Sounds great," Fakir says, and Duck looks cheerful again: "That must be so exciting!"

"Well." Suddenly Autor is feeling nothing but weary. Fakir sits down. He's got a plain white shirt on, and Duck is looking plain too. There's simply nothing exciting about this moment at all. "I..." he starts to say, but then he changes his mind. "Do you ever miss the story? The way things were?"

"What?" Fakir's eyebrows shoot up. "You of all people want the story _back_?"

"I don't!" Autor says vehemently. Fakir is being irritatingly slow, as always. "Not the story. The... powers. This life pales in comparison, doesn't it? You," he says to Fakir, "saved the whole town, defeated the monster raven, defeated _Drosselmeyer_ , defeated the story that you were in! And you," he turns to Duck, whose eyes are wide, "you were Princess Tutu, the key of the whole story in a sense! Don't you miss that?" He can't help but look Duck up and down. Princess Tutu was a strong, graceful dancer with a glittering dress - Duck has to miss being Princess Tutu.

To Autor's surprise Duck replies by smiling radiantly. She looks at Fakir. "Actually, I don't," she says, and Autor can tell that she means it. For a moment, he's so frustrated he can barely sit still. Don't these people understand how mundane they are, how pathetic their lives are now compared to what they were - what they could have been? Drosselmeyer, in his time, broke down the wall between stories and reality. Autor can't even imagine how he did it; it must have been something incredibly clever and mighty. And here Drosselmeyer's descendant sits at an ordinary kitchen table, soot in his hands from poking at the fire, and doesn't even realize what a disappointment he is.

"Don't you want... more out of life?" Autor asks, defeated because it's clear he doesn't, but helpless against the will to know.

"Autor..." Duck's voice, quiet and almost tender, startles Autor. "What do _you_ want out of life?"

Autor hesitates. Fakir looks at him sharply; Duck's big eyes are filled with empathy. He's not going to say anything, but then his mouth opens as if on its own and out comes, "Once I thought I would have the power to - capture life. To give life!" He falls silent, wondering if they can understand. Fakir should, if the oak tree told him anything at all like Autor imagines it did, the time it spoke to him. "I thought I would be able to spin stories so great that they would be indistinguishable from reality! I wanted to move people. I wanted to be famous and live in palaces of the kings!"

"I thought you were famous and living in palaces right now," Fakir says. Autor looks down.

"Not... exactly." It's what he's wanted Fakir to think, and he must admit that for a fleeting moment he's happy Fakir has thought that. Now he has to tell the truth though. So he tells them about the long, uncomfortable trips, modest accommodations, humble music halls in small towns. "It's not at all what I imagined it to be."

"But Autor," Duck says, and there's warm delight in her voice. He would have thought his description would make anyone feel the same desolate hopelessness he's feeling. "You're just starting!" she says. "You _will_ be famous. You're a really good player! And you said people like 'Clues,' your own song!"

Autor is taken aback both that she remembers the name, and that she seems to care so much. She's smiling and looking at him as if she's convinced she's right.

"You're at the beginning now! Give it time, and in a few years you'll be rich and famous." Then she looks more serious. "And more importantly, if you put your heart into your music, you will make people feel what you've felt. You will make them happy and sad. You will make them remember things they'd forgotten. You will make their hearts open and tender! I know this because I've felt it. We listened to a lot of music in ballet class."

She turns to Fakir as if to urge him to back her up. "She does have a point," he says.

"And what's more," she continues, "there are stories and emotions and dreams in all art - not just writing, but in music and dancing and pictures!" She pauses, then remembers. "And sculptures!"

"Breathe," Fakir says, looking amused. "He knows what you mean."

"I do, but..." Autor feels doubtful Duck knows the difference between what he's talking about and what she's saying. "I'm still not going to be able to spin stories like Drosselmeyer."

"Well," Fakir says, "why would you want to?" Autor looks at him. "Drosselmeyer lost his hands and died; you know it better than anyone. You've seen his grave. Drosselmeyer had power, but I think it's easier to have a little less power than he did."

Autor isn't convinced, but it feels difficult to argue in the face of what Fakir says. He spends the rest of the visit listening to Duck talking about all the people she knows, and what they're doing now.

When Autor is leaving, in fact, when they've said goodbye and he is about to go out, he suddenly realizes that he feels better, and that he should say something. He turns. Fakir and Duck look at him expectantly.

"Uh." He gets a grip on himself. "Thank you. For earlier."

"You're welcome!" Duck says, beaming with pleasure; it makes Autor even more uncomfortable. Luckily, it seems that Fakir can sense that.

"Well, I'm just glad you didn't want Drosselmeyer's story back," Fakir says, and the dry tone makes Autor feel more at ease. "That could have got complicated." He looks at Autor, seemingly nonchalant, but something about the way he's standing makes Autor suddenly remember how he once said, "I won't allow the story to go backwards any longer," and how Autor realized that Fakir was going to try to rewrite the story, _Drosselmeyer's_ story that was controlling the whole town - and how he had succeeded.

*

In his next concert, Autor plays last his song that tells about his make-believe love for Rue. He thinks about Rue when he plays, but more about his feelings: the gentle feelings, the glowing feelings, the feelings that made him tremble and almost fall down on his knees, so strong that when she asked if he would lay down his life for her, he said yes.

He calls it 'The Dancer.' He's surrounded by people after he stops. He gets flowers and praise and admiring looks. He wants to grin in glee and laugh but of course he's as gracious as always. His heart flutters, though. He can see that his music had an effect on these people. Maybe it can capture _them_ for a moment; maybe it can make them see things differently. Maybe it can change lives. Maybe it can make them fall in love with him for a while like he fell in love with Rue! He accepts the flowers and thanks everyone and says that the song tells about a girl he once loved and lost. He's starting to enjoy himself. 

 


End file.
